45sponte sua sandyx pascentis vestiet agnos. “Talia saecla,” suis dixerunt “currite” fusis concordes stabili fatorum numine Parcae. Adgredere o magnos (aderit iam tempus) honores, cara deum suboles, magnum Iovis incrementum! 50aspice convexo nutantem pondere mundum, terrasque tractusque maris caelumque profundum; pr aspice, venturo laetentur ut omnia saeclo! O mihi tum longae maneat pars ultima vitae, spiritus et quantum sat erit tua dicere facta! 55non me carminibus vincet nec Thracius Orpheus nec Linus, huic mater quamvis atque huic pater adsit, Orphei Calliopea, Lino formosus Apollo. Pan etiam, Arcadia mecum si iudice certet, Pan etiam Arcadia dicat se iudice victum. 60 Incipe, parve puer, risu cognoscere matrem: matri longa decem tulerunt fastidia menses. incipe, parve puer: cui non risere parentes, nec deus hunc mensa, dea nec dignata cubili est.
pr Cur non, Mopse, boni quoniam convenimus ambo, tu calamos inflare levis, ego dicere versus, hic corylis mixtas inter consedimus ulmos?
- 52laetentur P: -antur R
- 55vincet R: -at P
- 62cui codd.: qui Quintilian 10.3.8, whose error in construing qui (plural) . . . hunc (singular) continues to mislead.
yellow; and scarlet shall clothe the grazing lambs at will.
“Ages so blessed, glide on!” cried the Fates to their spindles, voicing in unison the fixed will of Destiny.
O enter upon your high honours—the hour will soon be here—dear offspring of the gods, mighty seed of a Jupiter to be! See how the world bows with its massive dome—earth and expanse of sea and heaven’s depth! See how all things rejoice in the age that is at hand!
I pray that the twilight of a long life may then be vouchsafed me, and inspiration enough to hymn your deeds! Then shall neither Thracian Orpheus nor Linus vanquish me in song, though mother give aid to the one and father to the other, Calliope to Orpheus, to Linus fair Apollo. Even were Pan to compete with me and Arcady be judge, then even Pan, with Arcady for judge, would own himself defeated.
Begin, baby boy, to recognize your mother with a smile: ten months have brought your mother long travail. Begin, baby boy! The child who has not won a smile from his parents, no god ever honoured with his table, no goddess with her bed! 8
Mopsus, now that we have met, good men both, you at blowing on the slender reeds, I at singing verses—why don’t we sit together here, where hazels mix with elms?